Unbreakable
by maytheoddsPN12
Summary: Katniss is relieved that Peeta is safe after months of living in captivity and enduring torture at Snow's hands. But their happy reunion is cut short by the threat of impending civil war. Their relationship puts them in danger in ways they couldn't imagine, but can they find a way to survive against all odds? [AU; takes place immediately after Peeta's rescue; no hijacking.]
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: The following section in italics is lifted directly from 'Mockingjay.' **_

_It must be midnight, it must be tomorrow when Haymitch pushes open the door. "They're back. We're wanted in the hospital." My mouth opens with a flood of questions that he cuts off with, "That's all I know."_

_I want to run, but Finnick's acting so strange, as if he's lost the ability to move, so I take his hand and lead him like a child. Through Special Defense, into the elevator that goes this way and that, and on to the hospital wing. The place is in an uproar, with doctors shouting orders and the wounded being wheeled through the halls in their beds. _

_We're sideswiped by a gurney bearing an unconscious, emaciated woman with a shaved head. Her flesh shows bruises and oozing scabs. Johanna Mason. Who actually knew rebel secrets. At least the one about me. And this is how she has paid for it._

_Through a doorway, I catch a glimpse of Gale, stripped to the waist, perspiration streaming down his face as a doctor removes something from under his shoulder blade with a long pair of tweezers. Wounded, but alive. I call his name, start toward him until a nurse pushes me back and shuts me out. _

"_Finnick!" Something between a shriek and a cry of joy. A lovely if somewhat bedraggled woman—dark tangled hair, sea green eyes—runs toward us in nothing but a sheet. "Finnick!" And suddenly, it's as if there's no one in the world but these two, crashing through space to reach each other. They collide, enfold, lose their balance, and slam against a wall, where they stay. Clinging into one being. Indivisible._

_A pang of jealousy hits me. Not for either Finnick or Annie but for their certainty. No one seeing them could doubt their love. _

_Boggs, looking a little worse for the wear but uninjured, finds Haymitch and me. "We got them all out. Except Enobaria. But since she's from Two, we doubt she's being held anyway. Peeta's at the end of the hall. The effects of the gas are just wearing off. You should be there when he wakes." _

_**Peeta. **_

_Alive and well—maybe not well, but alive and here. Away from Snow. Safe. Here. With me. In a minute I can touch him. See his smile. Hear his laugh._

_Haymitch's grinning at me. "Come on, then," he says._

_I'm lightheaded with giddiness. What will I say? Oh, who cares what I say? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He'll probably be kissing me anyway. I wonder if it will feel like those last kisses on the beach in the arena, the ones I haven't dared let myself consider until this moment._

_Peeta's awake already, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I'm disappointed that mine was not the first he saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features register disbelief and something more intense that I can't quite place. Desire? Desperation? Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his feet, and rushes towards me. _

"Katniss?" He whispers my name, as if saying it any louder will shatter this fragile moment. As if he can't believe that I'm standing here, eyes shining and arms open, waiting for him to come home.

It's not home—just an underground bunker with gray walls and gray tiled floors and metallic-scented air—but when he surges forward and wraps his arms around me, it feels like home.

His lips are moving in my hair, his hands splayed across my back, but I'm crying so hard that I barely feel it. "You're—safe," I sob, reaching up to touch his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his shoulders. "You're _here._"

He's shaking, but I don't realize it until two pairs of gloved hands are prying him away from me. Peeta has turned so pale, so completely alabaster that he looks like he's been bled dry. His eyes are wide, unseeing, black with fear. I let out a primal cry of protest, lunge for him but narrowly miss him as the doctors drag him back to the gurney. Haymitch's hands clench around my wrists, forming effective handcuffs, and he jerks me back.

"He's in shock, Ms. Everdeen," one of the doctors, a man with close-cropped auburn hair and a pair of wiry spectacles informs me, before forcing Peeta into a supine position. He resists, his muscles jerking and straining against the doctors' vice-like grips on his arms and legs, and then goes limp. "It's too much sensory stimulation, you see. I'm afraid we'll need to keep him in isolation for a few more hours, if not for a few days, until he's acclimated to it."

But I won't hear it. "Let me see him," I cry, trying desperately to slip out of Haymitch's impossibly tight grasp. "I need to see him. Please." A sob works its way out of my chest. _"Please."_

"Ms. Everdeen, you're going to have to wait until tomorrow morning. An orderly will meet you at the hospital entrance to update you on his condition." The doctor turns his attention to Haymitch. "Would you…?"

"I've got her," Haymitch says through gritted teeth, and drags me down the hall, away from Peeta, past Finnick and Annie's huddled reunion, past the cacophony of machines beeping and doctors checking vitals.

I'm still a wreck, still straining against his grip, senseless to everything but Peeta's pain, Peeta's suffering. _He needs me_ and I've already failed him so many times, so how can I let them do this? "Let _go _of me!" I shriek, but Haymitch ignores me, just keeps dragging me until we've reached my quarters.

Before he deposits me, a spluttering, trembling mess at my door, he sighs and runs a hand through his waxy hair. "A damn shame they didn't get that on camera," he grumbles. "If only they could see you now."

…

The news spreads like wildfire: the Capitol's prisoners are safe; Peeta's in isolation; and Katniss is inconsolable.

At first, the people of Thirteen wonder if I'm still playacting at love. If I'm so well-rehearsed that I can no longer draw the line between reality and pretend. I hear them murmuring when I'm in the dining hall, trying to catch sidelong glances as I walk by, head bowed and tray rattling in my hands. "Oh, she's just confused," they whisper to each other. "The boy's a traitor. Once she figures that out, she'll forget all about him."

But it's far from an act. Whatever I feel is none of their concern. I ignore their whispers and the admonitions from the hospital to keep my distance for 'just a little longer' and sit with my back against Peeta's sealed door, muttering his name in my sleep. Just like he did when he slept against the base of my tree in the first arena, guarding me from untold dangers.

And then one day, the door slides open.

I scramble to my feet, breathless and eager as he steps outside, free of restraints. Face gaunt but eyes clear. Hands tremulous but spine straight.

It's tense for a moment—Can he touch me? Will I let him?—until one of his doctors, the same stern-faced redhead from several days ago, nods and lets a faint smile show on his lips. _Go ahead. _

That's all the permission I need. Without hesitation, I fly into Peeta's arms, pull his face down towards mine, kiss him to make up for all the times I didn't. His mouth slides against mine and finally, in this cold underground prison, I feel warm.

We're not aware of the small crowd that has assembled in the cramped hallway until I draw back, struggling for breath, and hear people clapping. Mostly nurses and doctors, wearing real smiles instead of their usual clinical, detached frowns, but Prim and my mother are there, too, clutching each other and wearing mixed expressions of relief and joy. Haymitch stands behind them, flashes us a thumbs-up and a mirthful grin.

I glance back up at Peeta, my hands still resting on his chest, and see that he's more than a little stunned by all this attention. "You're here," I repeat, still not quite believing it. He tears his eyes away from the sea of shining faces, focuses on me. At last, his lips part in a shaky smile.

"I'm here," he echoes. "With you."


	2. Chapter 2

It seems that the news of Peeta's rescue has not been received well by everyone in Thirteen. That is to say, most people in Thirteen.

They call him a traitor. A peace-monger. A puppet of the Capitol, among other unspeakable things. But they revere me, fall in hushed awe of me when I walk by, even though I am just as responsible for this rebellion as Peeta is. I wore incendiary costumes, shot a few arrows and plucked a few poison berries. Peeta used words to bring a nation to its knees, declarations of love and unplanned pregnancies. I am the face of the rebellion, but he was its voice.

Had the orchestrators of the rebellion chosen to rescue Peeta over me, I'm certain the people of Thirteen would be falling at his feet. And I would be rotting in some cell in Snow's mansion.

Coin calls for a quorum once the dust has settled. An assemblage of government employees and rebellion leaders and half-dead victors, crowded around a sleek metal table in her conference room, to meet and discuss our next course of action, now that the Mockingjay's requests have been adequately met.

I'm already late for the meeting, according to the frenzied beeps emitting from my newly-issued communicuff, but I told Peeta yesterday that I'd come by his room in the hospital wing to collect him. I grit my teeth, jam the red _off_ button on the side of the cuff, and jog down the hall to the wing.

They won't let him out yet, even though they released him from the isolation room just yesterday afternoon. Say that he needs time to recover from physical and psychological trauma, things we haven't yet discussed, and things that turn my stomach just to consider.

I skid to a stop as I turn the corner, only to find Peeta leaning against his doorframe, waiting for me. "Hi," he says, still looking at me like I'm a mirage and I might vanish if he tilts his head just so. "You look—"

Cutting him off with my lips, I stand on tiptoe to reach him. There's nobody around, not a single person milling around these usually bustling hallways, and I take the opportunity to show him again how much I missed him. How much I need him.

He sighs heavily, his breath pulsing against my mouth as I pull away. "Katniss."

"What?" I murmur, lining the toes of my boots up against the toes of his white sneakers. "Too much?" Dr. Aurelius, his psychologist, warned me about that yesterday. _He's not used to intimate physical contact, Katniss, just ease him into it gently. _I worry that I'm straining him, that he'll relapse into a near-catatonic state and I'll have to surrender him again.

"No, I just…" he trails off, dipping his forehead back down to touch mine. He presses his lips to my nose, but it's timid, a light kiss that ghosts on my skin. "Hi," he repeats, instead of elaborating.

"Hi," I say, looping my fingers through his. "We should get going. We're already late."

He nods, uncharacteristically silent and somber, but wraps his hand around mine and follows me down the hall. The sounds of our plodding footsteps echo all around us.

I glance up at him nervously as we close in on the conference room. "You're sure?" I ask under my breath, so the placid guards flanking the bolted doors can't invade our privacy, or the semblance of that privilege. "This isn't too much for you?"

He gulps, which isn't exactly convincing me of his emotional stability, but then nods. "Yes. I'm sure." He squeezes my hand, a fleeting sensation of comfort, and nudges me forward with his shoulder. "Lead the way, Mockingjay." A tiny smile flits across his face, and I ignore the deep pang of guilt and longing before smiling back.

Coin is in the middle of a speech when Peeta and I walk in, unforgivably late. Dozens of heads turn in unison, eyes lingering on me for a moment before shifting to Peeta. Do I imagine it, or are some of their gazes filled with thinly-veiled contempt?

Coin barely glances up from her notes, even though she must know that I'm here. She held up her end of the deal—_save Peeta_—so now I'm here to uphold mine.

There's one empty chair, adjacent to Plutarch and Fulvia. I feel Peeta's eyes on me, daring me to take the seat, but I know what will happen if I do that. I'll play right into their hands, give them confirmation that Peeta isn't vital to the rebellion. A few of the officials from Thirteen keep their eyes locked on us, glare at me expectantly, but I scowl and hold my ground.

"Will someone please make room for Ms. Everdeen and Mr. Mellark?" Coin asks flatly, never once glancing up at us, before launching back into her speech. The room remains silent, buzzing with an undercurrent of tension, until Finnick scrapes his chair back and makes a gap large enough for both of us to fit. Coin looks up for a moment, gestures at one of the guards at the back of the room, who promptly leaves and returns moments later with another chair.

"Thank you," I mutter to Finnick as I slide into the seat between him and Peeta. He smiles faintly, touches my shoulder in an apparent display of solidarity, and turns his attention back to Coin, who has been talking this entire time.

"…and even though the search-and-rescue mission was successful…" Coin pauses to allow a smattering of applause around the room. "Even though our volunteers managed to recover all captives, it was a costly mission. In terms of travel expense, ammunition and manpower, we simply cannot afford to carry out..." Again, she pauses, searching for the right word. "…_tangential_ missions that are ultimately useless for our purposes." Her eyes flicker up from her notes, and unmistakably land on me.

I scoff, unable to believe what I'm hearing. "I'm sorry. _Useless?" _

"Do you have something to say, Ms. Everdeen?" Coin sighs, sweeping a sheet of silver hair behind her ear.

"Yeah, I do." I can almost sense Haymitch's eyes burning into my skull, willing me to keep my mouth shut, but I can't help myself. "You think that rescuing Peeta was _useless?"_ I reach for his hand under the table, refuse to turn to look at him because I know he'll be some ghastly shade of white. "Rescuing all those victors from Snow's mansion, that wasn't a smart move for the rebellion?" I snap at her.

She purses her lips, disaffected by my outburst. "I'm simply saying that our resources should have been allocated to something more productive. These volunteers—many of whom are _your_ friends, Ms. Everdeen—could have died, trying to recover defectors."

"They _didn't_ die," I shoot back. "And he's not a defector. He's here, isn't he?"

"Katniss," Peeta says lowly, right in my ear. I ignore him.

Coin stares at me, her eyes cold. "Yes. On your behalf," she allows. Turning her attention back to the quorum, she clears her throat. "The people of District Thirteen moves that no further reconnaissance missions take place, in an effort to conserve manpower and a labor force." Her eyes scan the room. "Who will second that motion?"

The room is reluctantly silent, until Plutarch tentatively raises a hand. "I."

"Let's put it to a vote." One by one, people raise their hands to vote against further missions. Gale, Boggs and Haymitch among them. I can't help but think that, on some level, it's a passive aggressive way of letting Peeta know that he doesn't belong here. That I overstepped a line in asking for his rescue.

"It's settled, then. The motion passes with a 15-6 vote," Coin says. "No further requests for rescue missions will be indulged." Her eyes pass lazily over my face. Message received.

"That brings us to our next item on the agenda." The room falls silent again. I notice that everyone—except for Peeta and I, of course—has a copy of the agenda in front of them, and they're all staring at their sheets so intently, as if they're trying to conjure flames from the page with deep concentration. I frown, crane my neck to peer at Finnick's copy, but he turns to me with a grave expression. _I'm sorry._

Coin turns the meeting over to Plutarch, who rises from his seat and looks around the room, a wary expression overtaking his features. "Well, this is a bit awkward," he says with a nervous chuckle, to which everyone murmurs in response. "Didn't think that we'd have the full group here today, but, nevertheless." He shoots me a guilty look before he averts his eyes and says, "We're faced with a difficult task: determining the value of prolonging the star-crossed lover angle for our cause."

Peeta's grip tightens on my hand before I fully understand what Plutarch means.

They want to break us up.


	3. Chapter 3

Peeta and I sit in stunned silence as our peers decide the fate of our relationship.

"What's the harm in it?" an official from Thirteen asks, shrugging in our direction. "The Capitol eats that stuff up with a spoon anyway."

"That's exactly what Snow wants us to do," someone else interjects.

"Well, if we're looking to dissent, why not match her up with someone else?"

Finnick scoffs. "And you really think that would be _more _beneficial to the rebel cause?" He pats my knee sympathetically, but I'm too angry to feel grateful for him coming to my defense.

"Sure. Pair the Mockingjay up with someone a little, I don't know, _rougher._ Take the softness out of her image." A few heads nod in agreement, and the official continues, encouraged. "That's the problem with this star-crossed lover dynamic. It makes her weak."

Peeta's jaw tightens. He's struggling to restrain himself, but there have been far too many blows to his character in this short meeting. It's only a matter of time before he explodes.

Coin nods. "I agree. The footage from the other day alone is proof of the ineffectuality of the dynamic. The people in the districts won't stand behind an emotionally unstable leader." She presses a button on the slim silver remote in her hand, and the giant screen behind her blooms to life.

"_District Thirteen is safe, and so am—" _Onscreen, I falter and clap my hands over my mouth, unable to stifle the sob welling up from the depths of my chest. Someone off-camera calls _"Cut!" _but the tape keeps rolling as I break down into hysterical tears. _"It's my fault! It's all my fault!" _I watch as a medic comes into the frame and injects a syringe into the side of my neck, watch myself flailing and sobbing until the drugs kick in and I fall limp. And the screen fades to black.

The room is quiet, contemplative after seeing the raw footage. I can't look at anyone, least of all Peeta, so I lower my eyes to the table in shame.

See, Haymitch and Effie tried to goad me into showing emotion for sponsors, for the sake of the country's stability. But now that I have, the rebellion is threatening to crumble around me.

"I propose two solutions," Coin says, breaking the silence. "One, Katniss separates herself from Peeta, and we deal with the media fallout later. Two, she aligns herself with someone else associated with the rebellion."

"What about Gale Hawthorne?" Plutarch offers brightly. My head snaps up at that.

"No!" I burst out, then check myself. He's sitting directly across from me, after all. "I mean, shouldn't I get a say in this? Shouldn't _Peeta_ get a say?" Gale's gray eyes are fixed on me, his face registering hurt and frustration. I focus on Coin instead. "I'm the Mockingjay. Doesn't that count for something?"

Coin shakes her head. "Unfortunately, you've already exercised your authority by bargaining for Peeta's rescue," she tells me coolly, without so much as a glance in Peeta's direction. "This isn't your decision."

"_It is_ my decision," I shoot back. "I didn't ask for you to rescue him so that you could keep him from me, lock him away in isolation and interfere in our private lives."

My face is burning now, which makes Coin smile. Her lips are thin, stretched tight across her face like a serpent. "Oh? And what _was_ the driving force behind your decision to save him?"

I can't say it. Not in front of all these watchful eyes, Haymitch and Plutarch and Coin and _Gale_. Not when I haven't put it into words for Peeta yet. And especially not when I've struggled to admit it to myself. "Because… it was wrong," I stammer. "Snow torturing him for information he didn't have. It was wrong to keep him there for as long as we did."

Her eyes narrow at me, apparently unconvinced. "Well. If there are no further opinions on the subject, we will just proceed—"

"Oh, just let the kids work it out for themselves." Haymitch folds his arms across his chest, adopting a defensive stance as he leans back in his chair. Coin recoils.

"I beg your pardon, but this is not—"

"The boy just got sprung from his prison cell. She practically lost her head over him being trapped there. Give them a break, will you?" Haymitch says gruffly. "Let them breathe for a second, then shoot a few propos with the two of them reunited. The Capitol will go ballistic, then the districts will follow. And Snow'll be mad as hell."

A few murmurs of agreement circulate the room. "That's what you want, isn't it?" Haymitch adds. "A media frenzy? A cooperative Mockingjay?" He shrugs at me. "This is the only way you're gonna get it."

Coin pauses to consider this, looking as displeased as I've ever seen her. "Genius," Plutarch interjects as the president struggles with her decision. "We give the people what they want. Vilify Snow for his inhumane treatment of the victors while we're at it." He turns to Peeta, perhaps the first time in this entire meeting that anyone has regarded him. "What do you think? Could you tape a segment talking about your experiences in captivity? Really get the Capitol audience fired up?"

Peeta tenses up at the mention of his torture. "I—" he stammers, his hand clamping around mine so tightly that my knuckles crack and pop. "I don't—" Before he can say anything else, his voice breaks and he starts to shudder.

It would be difficult to miss seeing Gale shaking his head in exasperation from across the table.

"At least transfer him out of the hospital wing," Haymitch says, drawing the attention away from Peeta, who's fighting the early stages of a nervous breakdown. "He's better when he's with her."

"Really," Coin replies drily, casting a critical eye on a shaking Peeta. "It doesn't look like it."

"I don't think that's an unreasonable request." But from Haymitch's tone, I can tell that it's not a request. It's a demand.

Coin drums her fingernails against the surface of the table. "All right. Effective immediately, Peeta Mellark is to be transferred to the district's temporary living quarters. The guards will escort him to Habitation Services to initiate the process as soon as the quorum adjourns." She shoots me a cursory glance before returning to her agenda.

I exchange a look with Peeta, whose tremors have stilled. He smiles faintly, and it's barely detectable but enough to brighten the dank, gray room. I take one of his hands in both of mine and squeeze it, unable to contain myself.

_We're safe. For now. _

It's inevitable that they'll try to break us up. Haymitch prolonged a relationship slated for the chopping block, but who cares? Peeta's here, and he's safe, and it's more than I can ask for. I never allowed myself to imagine a future with him in while he was in the Capitol, didn't want to think about how it would feel to claim him as my own and sleep in his arms every night, but I can now.

I won't let them interfere with us. If the two of us are both alive at the end of all this, they won't be able to keep him from me anymore.

Coin adjourns the meeting with a decisive pound of her fist on the table, and mechanically, everyone rises from the table and slowly files out of the room. I realize that I'm still clutching Peeta's hand, that I've effectively missed the rest of the agenda because I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts. One look at Peeta confirms that he's just as lost as I am.

The pair of guards at the back of the room move forward to collect Peeta, escort him to the administrative offices to sort out his living arrangements, but Haymitch raises a hand. "Hold on, I'd like a moment with these two," he says, rising out of his chair. "I'll send for you when we're through?"

One of the guards with piggish features starts to protest, but his partner silences him. "We'll just be through those doors, Mr. Abernathy," he says deferentially, and the pair excuses themselves, leaving the three of us alone. The old team, even though it doesn't feel like it anymore.

"Thank you," I tell him in a low whisper, before he has the chance to say anything. Haymitch's eyebrows shoot up, obviously unaccustomed to hearing me express gratitude for something he's done, but I can't let this deed go unacknowledged. "For convincing her."

He sighs. "Well, sweetheart, I'm not sure how long this little reprieve is going to last. So don't thank me yet."

"I don't care." I shake my head at him. "I'll figure out a way around it." There's a long pause, and I feel inclined to fill it. "Thank you, Haymitch. We both appreciate it."

It's then that I realize I've been speaking on Peeta's behalf this entire time. That he's been silent for almost the entire meeting, has barely said a word since I came to pick him up in the hospital wing.

We turn to him at the same time. Peeta's eyes are vacant, troubled. Like the night he returned from the Capitol.

"Doesn't seem like it," Haymitch mutters under his breath.

Ignoring him, I kneel down in front of Peeta and rest a hand on his knee comfortingly. He flinches at my touch, something that I try not to take too personally. "You okay?" I ask for what feels like the hundredth time. I wonder if the question's bothering him as much as it bothered me.

"Fine," he exhales sharply, not quite meeting my eyes. I frown, unconvinced.

"It's gonna be alright," I tell him. "No matter what happens with the rebellion, they can't wedge their way in between us."

Peeta sighs. He looks so weary, the bruises and lacerations on his face and neck standing out even more prominently against his pallid skin. "You think that's what this is about?" he asks. Without warning, he pushes himself out of his seat, turns to Haymitch with a dark look in his eye. "It was never about that, Katniss. Coin can do whatever she wants to me. Try to make me look like a traitor, try to break us apart… whatever. I've already been through the worst."

Haymitch's face falls. "Listen, boy… I was only doing what I thought—"

"Save it, Haymitch," Peeta snaps, his fists clenching at his sides. "I know what you're gonna say. And don't think for a second that I wouldn't have done the same thing. If I was going to pick someone to lead this rebellion, I would have picked Katniss, too." But there's something more than anger lacing his features. Something more like real physical pain. "But one thing I'll never understand is why you didn't get me out of there sooner."

Peeta's face contorts, twists up like he's about to cry or start throwing punches, and either way, I'm frozen with fear. "I know," Haymitch admits, his voice hushed. "If you knew—if you had any idea how agonizing that decision was—"

"I have to go," Peeta says coldly, cutting Haymitch off. "See if they'll clear me from the hospital wing." He lingers for a moment, eyeing his former mentor with palpable pain welling up behind the brilliant blue irises, then stalks out of the room. The door slams shut behind him.

The air is so thick with tension that I almost find myself struggling to breathe. Then Haymitch lets out a strangled laugh. "Well," he says, scratching his head, "this is a first. Him chewing me out and storming off, you being level-headed."

"He'll calm down," I say uneasily, even if I'm not sure I believe it. The look on Haymitch's face confirms that he's got his doubts, too.

"Oh, sure." Another long silence. "Katniss?"

I'm surprised by his rare use of my name, not his usual patronizing _sweetheart._ "Yeah."

"You, uh. You know that I wanted to save him," he says, framing it like a statement instead of a question. "That there were... circumstances preventing me from doing that."

I know what he's trying to say. It doesn't take much effort to imagine Coin shooting down Haymitch's proposals to rescue Peeta; Plutarch glibly evading the question with a vague, _"We'll see,"_ and a glance at his communicuff.

It in no way forgives any of them for letting Peeta get picked up by the Capitol, for standing idly by when they knew his blood was spattering across Snow's tiles. It in no way exonerates me for letting him slip through my fingers in the arena. But I see the way Haymitch's shoulders are curved forward, his protruding collarbone, the sallow bags of skin drooping from his face.

This is more than survivor's guilt after the Games, remorse after watching unprepared tributes being slaughtered in the arena. This is anguish.

This is failure.

"I know," I say quietly. And, even if it's a lie, I add, "He knows, too."

Haymitch breathes out a sigh of relief. "Good. As long as you know."

He starts for the door, shaking his head in disbelief as he goes. Something compels me to call after him.

"I can talk to him," I offer. "Help him understand—"

Haymitch pauses in the doorway, turns back to me with a thoughtful look. "Don't bother, sweetheart," he says with a wry smile. "What's done is done. We can only move on from here." He yanks on the door handle. "Besides, you've got more important things to worry about."

I already know that. But his reminder doesn't fail to unsettle me, even long after he's gone.


	4. Chapter 4

My damned communicuff keeps blinking back to life with scheduling reminders and directives from Coin, but today I'm listless. More unwilling than ever to bend to her will, be the Mockingjay that she wants me to be. Not after the showdown we had this afternoon.

I wander the halls, brushing the whitewashed brick with my hand as I meander by in my aimless search for Peeta. No sign of him around my living quarters, so I take a lap of the hospital wing. After what must be the fifth lap, I give up.

The cuff lights up with a new command. _19:00h: DINNER. _

I flick my wrist back and sigh. A directive that I can't exactly disregard.

Of course, it means that I'll have to make idle chatter with my comrades. Defend my belligerent behavior at the quorum this afternoon. Pretend to be a born leader, while the thought of actually leading a rebellion makes my stomach twist and clench in fearful anticipation. It'll make the task of keeping dinner down especially challenging.

By the time I've managed to collect myself and saunter into the dining hall with a (hopefully convincing) confident swagger, my dinner slot is nearly half over. Well enough; the less time I have to spend talking, the better.

Greasy Sae's ebullient grin greets me before I even make it up to the serving line. "Heard he's back," she crows, ladling something gray with the consistency of mashed roots onto my plate. "And getting assigned quarters in your block of rooms, is that right?"

"Where did you hear…?" I start to ask, but someone elbows me forward, and Greasy Sae just winks as I stumble on down the line, a little flicker of hope sparking in my chest.

Mechanically, I walk straight to my usual table, near the iron-barred window at the back of the hall. The same familiar faces—Beetee, Venia, Hazelle and the kids. Gale, who is stone-faced and looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here. And Finnick, who looks like he couldn't care less where he is, now that Annie's here and resting her head against his shoulder.

"Fancy seeing you here," Finnick drawls as I drop into the seat across from him with a sigh. "You've been missing in action all day. What, did you get lost in the halls again?" He grins, and I faintly return it before poking at my rations with a fork. Hardly edible.

"Yeah, something like that."

Finnick's eyes soften for a moment before he pipes up again. "Katniss, have you met Annie yet?" he asks. I shake my head.

"Not officially," I say, then extend my hand across the table. "I'm Katniss, Annie. It's nice to finally meet you."

Annie's green eyes beam at me as she accepts my hand. "You, too," she says with a childlike smile. "I always assumed we'd meet in person someday. Through some victors' function, or something. But…" she trails off, tilts her head back a bit to meet Finnick's gaze. "To be honest, I'm glad we're here instead."

I watch them for a few moments in silence. It's sweet, the way they seem to be able to communicate with their eyes in a language of their own. Sure, they're both a little worse for the wear, a little emaciated and sleep-deprived and haunted by their own private nightmares, but they have each other to ride out the storm. Makes me feel guilty for the hasty judgments I passed on Finnick because he's clearly in love with Annie, not some common Capitol whore, and he wears it well.

He presses a kiss to her forehead before turning back to the table with an apologetic smile. "Probably making you uncomfortable," he says, shooting me a teasing wink. Gale stiffens noticeably beside me, but refuses to acknowledge me in any capacity. "So, Katniss. Seen Johanna lately?"

My fork clatters to the table. _"No."_ Finnick's eyes are unreadable. "Why? Is she okay?"

He shrugs. "Well, 'okay' is a relative term," he says. "She's laid up. Couple broken ribs, but they're giving her morphling to ease the pain. It's… the _other_ stuff," he taps at his temple meaningfully, "that's the real trouble."

I absorb the news quietly. She'd seemed so strong to me in the arena. Said Snow couldn't break her, because she had nobody left for him to take from her. But I guess that was false bravado.

"Thought you would have seen her already," Finnick says now, his eyebrows bunching together thoughtfully. "You've spent more time in that hospital wing than anyone else." It's a light attempt at humor, but it falls flat. He clears his throat. "But if you get the chance…"

"I'll go see her," I tell him. Because I owe her that much, at least. She risked her life for the rebellion, _for me_, and I've only managed to write her off as a heartless bitch.

There's not much to talk about. Finnick refrains from talking about the quorum, just plies the mostly silent table with mindless chatter that I soon realize is not for our benefit, but for Annie's. Because if someone as mentally tough as Johanna is cracking under the psychological strain of war and torture, someone as fragile as Annie can't possibly handle it.

I excuse myself from the table after I've managed to swallow a few globs of monochromatic porridge and a few bites of gelatinous beef, mostly because watching Finnick and Annie getting all wrapped up in each other is making me eager to find Peeta.

I walk briskly to the exit, but before I can push through the doors, calloused fingers curl around my wrist and pull me back. _Gale._

"Can we talk in the hallway?" I ask, not even bothering to turn around because I know what I'll find. Dark, accusing eyes. Personal injury written all over his face. Seems that the more I try to defuse bombs, the more I end up hurting the people I care about.

He brushes past me into the hall, waits for me to shut the door tightly behind me and turn to face him before speaking. I recoil at the sight of Gale's left arm in a sling. Have I been that caught up in my own thoughts that I didn't notice it before? "Are you—?"

Gale shrugs. At least, he tries to. "Couple of bullets lodged in my shoulder during the rescue. Doctors dug them out. The sling's temporary." He drops his eyes. "I figured you already knew, but you were obviously busy."

Another pang of guilt. "Gale, if I knew—"

"What? Would you have come to see me?" Gale asks, cutting me off. My stunned silence is enough of an answer, I guess, because he scoffs. "If he wasn't here, maybe."

My heart drops into my stomach. "Don't bring Peeta into this," I admonish him, feeling my cheeks starting to color with rage.

"Kind of hard not to," Gale bites back. "He's been here for, what, four days? You're with him every waking minute. Even in that meeting, it was like…" He trails off, shakes his head. "Never mind."

"_What?"_

Gale glowers at me in silence for a full minute. Then he can't hold it in anymore. "We're at _war_, Katniss," he growls. As if I didn't know already. "The only reason we pulled him out of the Capitol was to remind you of that. You couldn't fight knowing that Snow was torturing him, so Haymitch asked Coin to assemble a rescue squad, give you a reason to keep fighting." He breathes heavily, nostrils flaring in anger. "And look what that's accomplished."

I'm floored. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" I ask him, crossing my arms over my chest.

"I'm saying that you need to _wake up,_" Gale snaps. "You can't base your decisions around him. We're at war, and you're leading the charge. So start acting like it."

There are so many things I could shout back in Gale's face—that he's being unfair, that he's selling out to Coin, that he's just _jealous _of Peeta—but I know it wouldn't get us anywhere. We're allies, if nothing else. I'm starting to suspect that it's the only bond we still share.

"I never thanked you," I say instead, my voice flat and emotionless. Gale's head rears back in surprise. "You saved him. So I owe you that much."

He stares at me in pained disbelief for another moment before deflating. "You're welcome," he mutters before stalking off down the hall, the fight drained out of him and my words of gratitude dying on my lips.

…

I desperately need to clear my head. And I know just who to talk to.

Before long, I'm sprawled across Prim's cot, absently stroking a hissing Buttercup while my sister plaits my hair. She listens patiently as I moan about the mounting pressures on my shoulders, the reality of war that lies ahead.

"It's hard. I know," Prim says thoughtfully, brushing a loose tendril of hair back behind my ear. "But is it really any worse than the Games?"

_Yes,_ I want to say. _Because it's a bigger arena, with more tributes. Because it's not a game, but a war._ But I don't want to scare Prim, that all-too familiar protective streak flaring up in me once again. "It's just that—no matter what I do, I always end up disappointing someone," I say, my stomach clenching at the memory of Gale in his sling, Coin with her sharply pursed lips.

Prim sighs, and I turn my head over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of her face. As young as she is—scarcely thirteen, and still fresh-faced—her eyes are full of wisdom. Intelligence and grace beyond her years. "You can't make everyone happy, Katniss," she says simply. "It's not about them. It's about independence."

My lips spread into a slow grin. "You know, little duck," I say, tugging on the end of her braid, which makes her giggle. "I think you'd make a better Mockingjay than me."

Her eyes go round as saucers. "Oh, no. I could never be," she says, shaking her head. "You're so…" Prim hums, searching for the word.

_Ruthless? Vengeful? Heartless? _A thousand words that describe me, none of them endearing.

"Brave," she finishes, her eyes smiling. When I scoff, she fixes me with a mock stern look. "Katniss, _of course_ you are."

"Mm-hmm," I murmur noncommittally.

Prim's quiet for a few moments, and I settle back down on the cot to let the anxiety leach out of my body. For the first time in days, the stress melts away. I can close my eyes, sink down into the mattress…

"Bet you that I can think of three people who believe in you, no matter what happens," she says, interrupting my thoughts. I groan and force myself into a sitting position as Prim reaches over, scooping Buttercup out of my arms and into her lap. "Mom. _Me_, obviously…" Then her lips curve up in a mischievous grin. "And Peeta."

_Peeta._

My fault, all my fault. His capture, his torture, his broken body and spirit a direct result of my actions.

Maybe he's still furious at Haymitch, and maybe I should still be furious, too, but there's this gnawing feeling in my gut telling me that it's not Haymitch who's to blame for this. We knew all along that Haymitch was double-dealing when it came to deciding who to save, but _I _swore to protect Peeta in the arena.

I promised. I failed. Now it's my turn to absorb the blame.

"I'm supposed to deliver a message," Prim says now, tugging her knees up to her chin. I frown at her. "Well, I was supposed to deliver it a while ago, but we couldn't find you. Your cuff wasn't on."

I let out a huff. "I hate that thing," I mutter, my mood soured by thoughts of Peeta's resentment. But she can't know that.

Prim barrels on with her news anyway. "You've been reassigned," she says cryptically, a sly grin working its way across her lips.

Frowning, I sit up straighter. "What does that mean?"

"Habitation Services officially transferred you to Compartment Three-Thirteen," Prim says, which is still vague. "So. You should probably go there now."

And then it becomes clear. Why she's so eager for me to move out of our little complex. "Prim…" I start, an anxious feeling bubbling up in my chest. "Is he there?"

Her smile widens. "Guess you'll just have to see for yourself," she giggles. I can't remember the last time I saw her smiling like that. Like she's about to burst at the seams.

She senses my hesitation, her smile faltering and eyebrows creasing in concern. "Katniss?" she asks, touching my shoulder lightly. "I thought… this would be _good_ news?"

"It is," I tell her automatically. "I mean, I wanted him here. _Want _him here," I say, correcting myself when Prim looks on suspiciously. "But, I don't know. You should have seen him and Haymitch this afternoon…" And the story spills out before I can stop myself.

Prim listens attentively, wincing when I relay Peeta's harsh words, Haymitch's look of pure defeat after he'd stormed out of the room. "He's furious at Haymitch now, sure, but what if…" I swallow hard, my voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "What if he decides that it was _my_ fault?"

Her mouth falls open. "Oh, Katniss…"

"I don't even think I can look at him," I tell her, blinking back the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "When I picture him—the way he looked at Haymitch—" Like his ex-mentor was already dead to him. Like all the apologies in the world could never redeem him. The guilt settles in my stomach like a heavy stone.

Prim's quiet for a while. She strokes Buttercup in silence, absorbing everything I've just said while I try not to break down. And then she looks up at me, her eyes dark and serious, making her look a lifetime older than she is.

"Don't be like Mom," she says, her voice grave. "Peeta's _alive_. He loves you, and if you shut down now, just because you think that someday he might change his mind, you're missing out on a huge opportunity." Prim reaches for my hand. "Don't be like Mom and… shut out the people who care about you while they're still alive."

So I take my thirteen year-old sister's advice. I breathe, collect myself, and smooth my hands down my trousers. And I resolve not to let Peeta become one of my ghosts. Not when I've just yanked him from the jaws of certain death.

I knock on Compartment 313's door, heart pounding to the same beat. A few panic-stricken moments drag by, and then the knob twists and the doorway widens.

"Hey," Peeta says, an unreadable expression on his face. "Welcome home."


	5. Chapter 5

We're out of sync.

I can't help but think that as soon as I cross the threshold into _our compartment._ He loved me, and I was painfully blind to it. I told him the truth that I didn't feel the same, and he turned his back on me. I fell for him, he was torn from me.

And now we're here together, but still moving at different paces. It's like the roles are reversed. He's usually the one pulling at my taut strings, working hard to make me smile, but now Peeta is silent. Stoic. Unreachable, even though we're living in what is essentially a shoebox. I could stand by the door and touch him at the opposite wall, but it would be useless. He's here, but is his heart?

Did the Capitol cut it out of him? Spare his tongue but not his soul?

"So, this is home now," I say, taking a hesitant step in his direction. When he doesn't dart away in terror like terrified prey, I work up the courage to curl my arms around his neck. "A storage closet with bunk beds."

Peeta smiles, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. They are fixed on the wall behind me, slightly unfocused and gray. Cold and gray. I remember his eyes being bluer, brighter before. Has District Thirteen drained the life out of him, as well?

"Yeah," he says distantly. "Home."

I gulp. How much does he know about what happened in Twelve? About the fire bombs raining down on the square, ravaging the merchant quarter, engulfing the bakery and his parents and his brothers in putrid black smoke and blood-red flames?

Does he know that, for now, for the foreseeable future, this _is_ home? That we'll probably never see District Twelve again? That even if we could, I wouldn't want to go back. The scent of rot and decay wafting from the ruins of the square, intermingling with the stench of Snow's white rose was enough to turn my stomach on my last visit.

Home is an arena. A battleground. Not a comfort.

I start to tell him, in case he doesn't know. But he presses a light finger to my lips. "Not yet," he says, eyes darting around the room. "They might be watching."

"Does that matter?" I ask him with a scowl, letting my arms fall away from his body. His eyes flicker back to me. "It never stopped us before, did it? Cameras on us all the time. We managed."

Peeta shakes his head, clearly exasperated. "No, it's—God. I'm getting a little tired of being watched all the time." He looks at me expectantly. "Aren't you?"

_Of course, I am._ But we've struck a deal. We'll play up this love story for all it's worth, rub it in Snow's face, show the districts that we can't be broken. Cameras everywhere. Interviews, propos. Our faces plastered across every screen in the goddamn country. Privacy in exchange for survival. That's what we agreed to, just a few short hours ago in Coin's conference room. But this doesn't feel like the right time to remind Peeta of that.

We don't touch again until the lights are turned out and we're huddled under the covers in the bottom bunk. I worry, as I slip into the sheets beside him and curl up around him, that maybe I'm too desperate. That he doesn't want, or need, to touch me. To pull me into his arms and cling whenever he has the chance.

"Too tight?" I murmur into his collarbone once I've fitted myself against him. He shifts beside me in the dark, guides my head to rest atop his chest and curls his arm protectively around my shoulders in response. My eyes flood with embarrassing tears. _Too long, since we've done this._

"Never." His voice rumbles in his chest, vibrates against my ear. I grin stupidly into the dark.

We breathe together for a while in complete, comfortable silence. My voice comes from a brave place somewhere deep inside me. "You know, if they're watching, they probably can't see us anymore," I say mischievously.

Peeta's breath hitches with a nearly-silent laugh. "You think so?"

"Pretty sure," I return, tilting my head back to catch a glimpse of his face. It's so dark, nearly impossible to see anything at all, but I don't think that I imagine the smile growing on his lips. "Do you think—"

In one swift motion, he captures my face between his hands and kisses me. It's the first time that he has initiated a kiss in a long time. It starts out slow, his lips congregating with mine almost shyly. One hand snaking up into my hair, the other sweeping over my cheekbone.

It doesn't take long for that familiar feeling to creep back in. The longing I felt on the beach. Flames licking at my belly, heat spreading its way down my spine and through my veins. I want him closer, warmer, deeper, and unlike the time we kissed on the beach, there are no cameras to deter me from crawling into his lap and clinging to him.

He pulls away briefly, long enough for me to catch my breath and finish that last thought. "—it's worth the risk?" I whisper, and instead of answering, he surges forward again.

My eyes flutter shut. I will commit this to memory, my first burst of unadulterated bliss in this unforgiving prison. Better than the sensation of a cool, smooth pearl slipping over my lips, better than pushing down feelings of longing and desperation. I haven't felt this way in a long time.

But it's too slow. Far too gentle and careful. He keeps his lips pressed tightly together like an iron gate, barring my access to the deeper parts of him. This is not the electric fence that I've learned to circumvent. I feel the current buzzing and humming, but there will be no conservation efforts tonight. He will keep his guard up.

His lips leave mine. I crane my neck toward him for another kiss, hoping to satisfy my insatiable hunger for his warmth, but before I can close my lips around his, he speaks.

"So," he croaks, his voice pulling me out of my reverie. I open my eyes to find him chewing on his bottom lip. "About today."

That does the trick. The heat pooling in the depths of my belly dissipates, and the queasy feeling from earlier creeps back in. "A lot… happened today," I say hesitantly. "Which part are you referring to?"

He swallows. And guilt coats my heart like a varnish. Coin's voice echoes in my mind, the words _useless_ and _defector _reverberating. How could she say something like that, knowing full well that he was sitting right there? How could she denounce the mouthpiece of the rebellion, knowing full well that he was tortured to advocate for the Capitol?

If Peeta brings it up, I might dissolve into tears of secondhand humiliation.

"This star-crossed lover dynamic," he says instead, and I sigh. Partly out of relief, partly because this is yet another painful topic to discuss. "I don't know, Katniss, is this really such a good idea?"

My stomach clenches. I can't be certain that I heard him correctly, but he's staring at me intently. Gravely. "What?" I ask, my mouth going dry. "Of course, it is. It's like Haymitch said, it'll bring the districts over to our side, make Snow wish that he'd never—" His eyes are still heavy with doubt. I sigh again. "Don't you want this?"

Peeta takes his time to respond, choosing his words deliberately. "I do. But—sometimes—I wonder if that's what you want." He frowns. "If there's a part of you that's just doing this because…"

"Because?"

He gathers his breath and courage. "Because you pity me."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy and dark. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room.

Does he really believe that?

"What gave you that idea?" I ask him, my voice plunging into icy temperatures by degrees. I don't mean to sound so cold, but it's hard to radiate warmth when you've just been accused of pretending.

His face crumbles, and so does the shoddy wall around my heart.

"They said some things," he says quietly, choking out the words. "When I was—" But we both know what he's going to say, and when he lets the sentence drop off into the void, I don't press him to keep going.

"Peeta," I say, but his confession has squeezed the air out of my lungs. My words are soundless. I clear my throat, try again. "You don't really think that."

"Am I that far off base?" he asks dejectedly, eyelids lowered enough that I can't hold his gaze. "It was always a game, you and me. Still is." He folds his arms across his chest, shifts so that he's lying flat on his back. "We're still doing it for the cameras. Trying to convince other people that it's real. I don't see how this is any different."

He's right. It's the same objective, only with a new arena. If this is going to work, we can't keep trying to convince an audience. We have to convince each other.

I have to convince him. Make him see that this is more than an angle, more than a game. He is more than that to me. We are more than pawns in their game.

"The video," I say after a long pause. I don't think that I need to elaborate, because he rolls over to face me after it sinks in. His eyes full of hope. I can't remember the last time I saw him look at me that way.

"Did they—ask you to—?"

I shake my head. "No. I mean, they wanted me to shoot a propo. Prove that I was still alive, that they hadn't broken me, but." I dare myself to say it. "It wasn't true."

"It wasn't?" He's got his head propped up on his arm, and he's watching me eagerly. Prim used to get that same look in her eyes when she'd manage to get me to tell her a story. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

"They broke me," I say. It's the first time I've been able to admit it aloud, to myself. "I tried to get the words out, but I couldn't stop picturing them. Hurting you. Because of me." There's a lump rising in my throat, one that I try in vain to swallow. "And that's when I fell apart."

His eyes are shining now. "If I'm being honest, Peeta, I survived when they took you. I survived without you." _But. _"But I wasn't living." Tentatively, I reach out to touch the curls at the base of his neck. "I can't live—without _you_."

I taste saltwater when he kisses me. Our tears running together into a ravine, streaming down our lips. But it's a flavor of promise, not melancholy. Hope.

"Don't ask me to label it," I murmur against his lips when he pulls away to take in a shuddering breath. "I don't know what to call it. But I know that I need you. Here."

Peeta nods, brushing my forehead with his, before pressing a light kiss to my lips. "I need you, too."

Somewhere being consciousness and sleep, I breathe the words into his chest. "So, we're doing this?"

I hear the smile in his voice as he reaches to run his fingers through my hair. "We're doing this," he agrees. "We're doing this."


	6. Chapter 6

Apparently, we're "doing this" in accordance with Plutarch's vision.

Countless planning sessions and strategy meetings, all of them filled with my adamant protests and Haymitch's fruitless attempts at bargaining. But Plutarch wouldn't listen to a single word of it.

"We're taping this propo to target Capitol audiences, right?" he'd ask, turning away from his scrawled notes on the whiteboard just long enough to meet our eyes. I'd glare right back at him, while Haymitch rolled his eyes and Peeta stared impassively into space. "They _live_ for your love affair. Truly. So why would we want to be subtle about it?"

There's nothing subtle about this setup. Even though an early attempt at propaganda failed on this very soundstage, Plutarch insists that we need to shoot some footage here. "For production value," he says, brushing off criticism with a wave of his hand. I stop voicing my dissent after several failed attempts, especially when Fulvia starts glaring at me over Plutarch's shoulder.

Lighting technicians hook up colorful spotlights to the ceiling and angle them toward the center of the soundstage. The room is awash in a palette of deep purples and ominous blues. A hazy smokescreen looms behind the stage. Cameramen, under Cressida's direction, swarm the area, adjusting their lenses and testing their boom microphones. My prep team appears to have multiplied, possibly reinforced with refugees from Districts One and Eight, who know their way around a swath of fabric and a mascara wand. It's all very disorienting.

And then there's the audience to consider. Not just the Capitol citizens, or the surviving members of the districts. Haymitch, propped up against a back wall, wearing a sour expression. Finnick and Annie, twined in each other's arms, engrossed in conversation with a scowling Gale. Coin, sitting in a folding chair in the center of the room, her eyes boring into my forehead.

"Oh!" Venia cries, dabbing at my forehead with a powder puff. "Try not to sweat, dear. Your makeup is starting to run, and it makes your skin look shiny."

Impossible not to sweat. Not with these bright lights trained on my face, with the immense pressure of President Coin watching. Because if this fails, she will certainly find an excuse to terminate my relationship with Peeta, both onscreen and off.

"I'll try," I tell Venia through gritted teeth, only because she's been through a lot, and I'm in no position to snap at her. I have to keep my cool, if only for my audience's sake.

When my prep team deems me presentable, I break my way through the throng to get to Peeta, who is standing on the opposite side of the stage, looking highly uncomfortable. He catches my eye and mouths, _"Help me,"_ when a woman with a shock of electric pink hair yanks him forward by the collar of his rebel uniform and proceeds to apply a thick layer of concealer to the bruises and scars marring his neck. I bite back a grin and wait for the crowd around him to disperse before sidling up beside him.

"Just like old times, huh?" I rib. I hope that the wave of anxiety sweeping over me doesn't belie my teasing tone. Peeta smiles shakily at me in return.

"Yeah, just like." He pauses and surveys the room around us, which is bustling with activity. Satisfied that nobody appears to be watching us, he moves in closer to me and lets the smile drop from his face. "Look. This isn't exactly what I had in mind when I agreed to do this—"

"Me neither," I interject. "But we've just got to get through it. Say our lines, do our thing for the cameras, and then it will all be over. We can negotiate better with Plutarch if we shoot this one propo for him."

Peeta suddenly looks very pale. "Okay."

I don't know what to do, how to calm him down. So I reach for his hand and squeeze gently. His face brightens considerably, but it doesn't make me feel much better. He's shaking, shivering, but still wearing a smile for me. It makes me feel guilty. I've really failed to consider how all of this pressure is affecting him.

"Just grab my hand if it's too much for you," I tell him, searching his face for any sign that he wants to back out. But Peeta just nods and squeezes my hand.

"Same to you," he says. As if he has any reason to worry about my emotional stability. He leans in close, our noses brushing up against each other, and murmurs in a low voice, "By the way, I'm really starting to like this rebel look. You, uh… you wear it well."

I can't help the blush that spreads across my cheeks like wildfire. Not exactly projecting the picture of confidence and strength that I'm supposed to for the cameras.

"Okay. Quiet on the set!" Plutarch calls out over the din, and a hushed silence falls over the room almost immediately. Satisfied, he crosses onto the soundstage where Peeta and I are huddled together and grins. "Very sweet, you two. Keep it up for the cameras. I'd like to get this done in a couple of takes." He pauses for us to nod assent. "We're clear? Okay. Let's get this show on the road."

I inhale sharply, force myself to breathe out through my nose. There's no reason for me to be nervous—the script is simple, the demands minimal—but I _am_ nervous.

Before the lights dim, I cut my eyes over to Peeta. His blue eyes reflect a sudden flash of alarm, one that he struggles and fails to conceal with a wavering smile, and then the room plunges into darkness. I resist the urge to fumble for his hand in the dark. _Stick to the script. _

Lights up. The soundstage bathed in ominous purple light. Smoke starts swirling low at our feet. Cameras creeping in to get a tight shot of our faces. I try to look into the lens, recite my lines about how the Capitol obliterated my home, turned it into a chemical wasteland, but my eyes wander the room and settle on Coin's placid face instead.

And then it's Peeta's turn to speak. Plutarch threw him a handful of lines. Brief, but powerful. He figured that if anyone could take these rote lines and turn them into something dazzling, it would be Peeta.

"District Twelve… is not home anymore," Peeta starts, drawing his pauses out longer than he did in rehearsal. He swallows visibly, and I want so badly to turn to him with an encouraging smile, but I can't. Not with Coin watching like this.

"Twelve is… it's, ah… it's…" He's stumbling now, choking on his words. I break protocol and turn ever so slightly to see his face, somehow both pale and gleaming with beads of sweat. "It's—" Peeta raises a shaking arm to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

I can't take it anymore. I have to help him out. "District Twelve is a graveyard," I burst out, ignoring the look of shock on Peeta's face. "That's why we are devoting our lives to the rebellion. So that we can avenge the wrongful deaths of our people." The words come out in a rush, lacking the polish and finesse that Peeta graced them with before the cameras blinked to life, but they're out. Preserved for the record.

"_Cut!"_ Plutarch bellows from his seat in the back of the room. Lights back up. Mutters of disapproval rising into the rafters. I stiffen my spine when he pushes himself out of his chair and storms across the room to us. But Peeta's voice sets me at ease.

"Thanks," he says, still looking kind of shaky. "For saving me."

I open my mouth to respond, but Plutarch is already upon us. Hissing corrections and urging us—Peeta, mainly—to push through the roadblocks so we can get to the kiss at the end.

"Because that's what we're here for," Plutarch reminds us. "To see our star-crossed lovers, reunited against all odds." He surveys us in silence for a few moments before stepping down from the stage. Then, almost as an after-thought, he turns back to me. "Stick to the script."

If only it was that simple.

Five more takes, and we've barely made it past Peeta's graveyard line. Ten more, and Coin is shaking her head. Fifteen. Eighteen. Twenty-three.

Okay, now I'm starting to get really nervous. Peeta's voice keeps breaking on his last line. If he even manages to deliver it flawlessly, he's a quivering wreck. And Plutarch is practically tearing what's left of his hair out.

So I've got to improvise. I can't wait around for Plutarch to accept that his 'foolproof' plan is falling apart, or for Peeta to pull himself together. I've got to take this into my own hands.

Wearily, Plutarch calls action again. Lights up, cameras panning. But instead of launching into my first line, I shun Camera Three's lens and let my feet guide me to Peeta. He's shaking again, eyes fixed intently on the camera in front of him. I touch his arm and he whirls on me, panicked. His whole body relaxes when he realizes that it's just me.

"Is it the cameras?" I ask him gently, in a voice so low that the boom mic operators may strain to pick it up. "Do they—remind you of—?" Snow's propos, the staged interviews with Caesar Flickerman, the systematic torture behind closed doors. I don't have to say it. What could I say?

Peeta nods, his eyes flitting back to the cameras, like he's afraid to let them out of his line of sight. I reach up and take his face between my hands.

"They can't take you again," I whisper. His eyes are so wide, unblinking. "Okay? Do you hear me? They can't take you. I've got you."

His jaw starts softening in my hands. Melting, loosening, and freeing itself from iron chains. But he still has that wild look in his eyes.

Impulsively, I crush my lips against his. In front of all the cameras. The production team. The rebellion leaders. Coin.

This isn't what he wants. This isn't what I want, either, but we have to give Plutarch something to work with.

When I pull away, Peeta's cheeks are flushed with color, a marked improvement over his usual ashen complexion. Plutarch calls cut, mercifully, before I have the chance to weave my lines into this improvised moment. Just as well. I'm still a little hazy after that kiss, and probably couldn't string together a coherent sentence for the cameras if I tried.

"Sorry," I mutter to Peeta before Plutarch storms the stage, inexplicably embarrassed by my impulsivity. "I was just trying—to think of something…"

He shakes his head briskly and pulls me into him for another kiss. "Don't be," he mumbles against my mouth, and leans back in for more. "I needed that."

I pull away just in time to see Plutarch practically bounding towards us like an overenthusiastic puppy. "I think we're getting close!" he's shouting, waving his hands over his head in his fit of catatonia. "That _kiss_, Katniss. Genius." He claps a hand over my shoulder and squeezes, grinning down at me. _"Genius!"_

"Thanks," I nod, a blush creeping into my cheeks. It wasn't so calculated, that moment. More of a desperate, last-ditch effort to reach Peeta. To rescue him from the tendrils of a lurking nightmare. But Plutarch has boiled the art of propaganda down to a science, reduced every word and movement to strategy.

"Let's talk aesthetics," he's saying now, and Peeta actually leans in, intrigued. I let my gaze drift from Plutarch's clipboard to the labyrinth of folding chairs facing the stage. Haymitch looks like he's dying for a stiff drink. Coin is more bemused than anything with a smirk playing on her lips as she stares up at us, which confuses me.

A dark flash crosses my field of vision and I blink, tearing my eyes away from Coin and readjusting my focus.

Just in time to see Gale stalking out of the room and letting the creaky metal doors slam shut behind him.


End file.
